


Unfinished

by FullmetalFeminist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief choking, Brief instance of trichophilia, Deviates From Canon, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Questionable use of beauty product, Questionable writing, Some violence but no one is getting hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalFeminist/pseuds/FullmetalFeminist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stag night should have led somewhere. We're taking it there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have only read one Johnlock story before. (But I've read hundreds of Destiel) I'm telling you this so if there are similarities between this and other Sherlock fanfics, this was not and actually could not have been intentional.

 They were drunk.  
 Drunk enough, it seems, to have lost all sense of personal space. In the front room of their flat (well, Sherlock's flat now) they leaned toward each other from their chairs, playing some sort of guessing game.  
 It was John's turn. He slid forward, almost off his chair, his hand landing on Sherlock's knee. He pulled it back. "Sorry."  
 Sherlock's mouth twisted to a smile. "I don't mind." His head was spinning, and the brief warmth of John's hand was like an anchor.  
 "Am I...you...you don't mind?" He squinted at his friend's face, then stretched his arm out and let his hand fall back to Sherlock's knee. John waited, but all he did was smile drunkenly. "This," John nodded at their connection. "This is okay with you?"  
 Sherlock shrugged awkwardly. "Course it is. It's your stag night, John. You should have what you like."  
 John closed his eyes. _Well, fuck all,_ he thought. _If I'd had what I like "_ I wouldn't need a stag party," he said aloud. His eyes flew open.  
 "Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes had closed too. His hand was on John's. When did that happen?  
 John drew in a breath. They were drunk, Sherlock probably blackout drunk. _Sod it_. "If I'd had what I like, I wouldn't need a stag party," he said.  
 Sherlock's eyes slowly opened. He fixed his gaze on John. No expression. _Not good_.  
 "John." Sherlock's voice was dark, infused with drink. It was dim in the room, just one light on. John tried to focus on his face but all he could see were those eyes, blue and green at once.  
 "John," he repeated.  
 "Yeah, Sherlock." John drew his mouth into a thin line, preparing either for an inquisition or for Sherlock to vomit.  
 "You should have what you like."  
 Did he hear him right? John looked away. He couldn't hope for anything, not even this drunk he couldn't. Not now.  
 Sherlock leaned forward, sliding his hand along John's arm. "I'm the best man," he blurted.  
 John laughed. "Yeah, you are."  
 "I'm important, too!"  
 John laughed again. "Yes," he agreed.  
 "Then..." Sherlock gestured to himself, "I should have what I like, too."  
 John stilled. "What do you like?" he asked slowly.  
 "Well...you," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most obvious answer of all. His hand had moved to John's shoulder and he gripped it tightly. "You," he repeated. "Doctor Watson." A small smile quirked his lips.  
 John nodded, still not seeing. "You need a doctor, now?"  
 Sherlock's expression shifted, all dark seriousness. "Yes," he whispered.  
 John felt Sherlock's hand along his neck, felt his thumb brush his mouth. He realized his own hand had gone wandering as they'd moved closer. All the way up Sherlock's thigh, fingers splayed, flexing into the fabric of his trousers and the pale skin beneath. _Too far,_  he thought, retreating.  
 Sherlock seized his hand. "Really. I don't mind," he said, drawing John's hand back. John's heartbeat had kicked up, Sherlock's had too. He could see it in his breathing, in the faint flush painting his cheeks. John's hand was at his hip. _Access point to the ilioinguinal nerve. Innervates the spermatic cord, round ligament, upper scrotum and penis, and is surprisingly accessible. One hard squeeze would go right to-_ John swallowed slowly, uncertainty clearing away.  
_It would go straight to Sherlock's cock._  
 John's thumb pressed into Sherlock's hip, past the bone and into the yielding flesh. Hooked along the inside of his ilium and drew back.  
 The shocked gasp Sherlock let out had John transfixed. He felt the drunkenness slipping away, replaced for a moment by clarity. _So beautiful._  It was always there, this observation, but never in words. With his head thrown back, dark curls tousled, lost in the sensation John had given him, it was undeniable.  
 John relaxed his hold. Sherlock gradually focused on John's blown pupils and parted lips, and gracelessly launched himself onto John's lap.  
 "Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called out as she reached the top step to their flat. "You've got a -oh!" She'd seen the situation, spun around and strong-armed a brunette woman away. "Sorry, dear. Seems they are quite indisposed at the moment. I'll tell them you came 'round," she said, smiling. She smiled all the way down the stairs, after she'd said goodbye and shut the door, and went into her own flat. Behind her door, she let out one elated giggle.  
 The intrusion, however brief, had rather upset whatever they had been heading toward. Sherlock had extricated himself from John's chair and was leaning against the mantel with one hand pressed to the side of his head. John, silent, stayed sitting.  
 "What do you take for a hangover?" Sherlock asked.  
 "You don't have one yet," John replied.  
 "Well, I will do," Sherlock said. "First time. What do you take?"  
 John cleared his throat. "Ibuprofen. And stay hydrated." He tried to judge if standing, heading downstairs, and catching a cab was advisable in his state. He was feeling the urge to flee. Feeling like never leaving again. Feeling like closing the damned door when they'd got back would have been a bloody fantastic idea.  
 "Will you stay?" Sherlock asked.  
 "What?"  
 "Stay. Your room is still here, after all. I think Mrs. Hudson made up the bed. Must've known we'd get pissed."  
 John managed a laugh. "Think I will." Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet. "Thanks for a...a night, Sherlock."  
 Sherlock smiled, one hand still crushed to his temple, only one eye still open. "Night, John."  
 John headed, rather unsteadily, to his old room. Mrs. Hudson had indeed made it up for him. He couldn't be too upset with her. After all, he'd had ages to have made a move. And a drunken, clumsy move in the end.  
 He closed the bedroom door.  
 Sherlock remained by the fireplace for some time. He stared down the shadowed hall where John had gone. "Not like this," he told the darkness. "John Watson. He deserves better."


	2. Chapter 2

 He was being lured from sleep. 

 John could hear it, could feel it. The keening sound. The scrape of the bow on strings. It roused him, pulled him from his bed. He paused at the door. Not so long ago, that sound would have set his jaw and sent him scurrying. The sound he never wanted to hear again. That he never would again. 

 But here it was, drifting down the hall just as he remembered. The song escorted him to the bathroom, where he found the ibuprofen. He actually felt better than he'd expected to. Tired, yes. Too old for a night like that, oh yes. But not sick. He ran cold water into his hands and let it pour over his face. As he brushed his teeth, he glanced at the watch he'd left on the shelf. It was barely 5:30 a.m. _What in the hell_... And here Sherlock was at his violin, serenading the sun as it crested the horizon. 

 John started toward the front room while thinking of educating his friend about timing yet again. He could see him, his robe swaying loosely as he drew the bow across the violin. Weak daylight surrounded him. John watched dust motes sail through the pale yellow light. Watched as Sherlock played, every movement as methodical and graceful as he remembered. 

 He had once heard that the sound of a violin was the most difficult to describe. That it was, at its essence, the sound of emotion. The fact that it was Sherlock's chosen form of expression, the man he'd once called a machine...

 Well, that said it all. 

 "Sherlock."

 He turned, violin still tucked to his chin. "John. Morning."

 "Not quite, actually."

 Sherlock began to play again. 

 "You'll wake Mrs. Hudson," John warned. 

 "Least of my worries," he said, still playing. "In fact, I rather owe her a disturbance." 

 John eyed him suspiciously. "For what?"

 "For last night, obviously," Sherlock said, turning away. 

 John lifted his chin and took a breath. "Last night. The party. Here." He glanced toward their chairs. 

 Sherlock went very still. He laid the violin down and set the bow delicately across the strings. He turned to John, clasping his hands at his back. "Ah. Last night."

 John waited, but Sherlock was saying nothing. Without the violin, without the normal daytime traffic, the quiet was enormous. They were just staring at each other, waiting for the other to speak. John was about to scrub his hands over his face; shout 'Never mind' or 'Fuck off' or something, anything, to get out of this moment. 

 "Unfinished business." Sherlock finally said. 

 John shook his head. 

 "You and I," he continued. "Seems we have some."

 John's eyes turned bleak. "It's a bit more than that."

 Sherlock's expression softened. "How did you sleep?"

 John winced. "What...how did I sleep."

 "Yes. Did you sleep well?"

 "Um. Yes." 

 "Get enough?"

 "Sleep? Yes, I suppose." 

 "No hangover?"

 "What? No, Sherlock, I'm fine."

 He took a step toward John. "Then I'm to understand you are in full possession of your faculties."

 John stared at him, shaking his head. He drove him mad. He really did. "Yes."

 Sherlock arched an eyebrow and a tiny smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "Good."

 Sherlock leaned down toward John, bringing one hand to his face. His palm rested gently on John's cheek for a moment. Then his fingers snaked around the back of John's neck and Sherlock's lips touched his. A slight hesitation, then Sherlock pressed closer. Warm and soft and a bit of a rush, finally crossing that line. He heard John's sharp inhale- almost like a gasp. Sherlock drew back, searching John's face. "That okay?" he asked. 

 "Yeah," John said. "Good. Nice." 

 Sherlock was appalled. "Nice?"

 "Chaste, I'd say."

 " _Chaste_!"

 John tried to hide his smile. He wrapped his hand in the lapel of Sherlock's robe. " _Very_ nice," he corrected, drawing him closer. 

 Sherlock's eyes were narrowed. "I'd like to see you do better."

 John's answer was a sudden yank to bring Sherlock's lips to his. He kissed him hard, one hand in his hair. Teeth and tongue grazed lips until Sherlock's mouth parted in invitation. Then everything seemed a molten tangle. 

 John had to ease back, catch his breath. "That okay?" he asked with a grin. 

 "I didn't know you'd had bridgework done," Sherlock replied. 

 John froze. "You...were checking my teeth?"

 "Seemed like a unique opportunity."

 "I _am_ going to kill you now. Properly kill you." 

 "Ask me again."

 John let out a huff. "Was. That. Okay?"

 "Yes," he said. "It was obscene." A dark smile appeared on his face, eyes gleaming, and he reached for John again. 

 It was easier this time. There was no more checking in. Sherlock's chaste approach was soon abandoned and John found himself being devoured. Barely pausing for breath, one kiss blending into the next, until they became one continuous undoing. John finally broke away to mouth down Sherlock's neck, leaving a wake of scrapes from his stubble. Sherlock ducked his head to John's and he raised back up, trailing kisses across his face. _Loved you, always loved you_. Sherlock had wrapped his arms around him. Bringing him closer, holding him tighter. When John felt Sherlock's nails dig in, he drew back. 

 So many things. There were so many things he'd thought about, he'd wanted, to do to him. 

 Sherlock hadn't let go. His fingers still gripped John tightly, his lips slick with their saliva and swollen from their kisses.

 So very many things. 

 John kissed him again, softer now. His hand drifted down over Sherlock's chest. Over the hem of his T-shirt, his loose pajama pants. He palmed him, finding him half-hard, pressing against it. Sherlock breathed in sharply as John stroked his hand over the length. He leaned into John and pressed his cheek to his hair. With soft, choking breaths in his ear and Sherlock's hands gliding down his sides, John felt his own erection straining against his jeans. He shifted so their hips were nearly flush and put his arm around Sherlock's waist. He drew him closer until he could feel Sherlock's hardness against his stomach. Not quite what he'd been going for. 

 "Sherlock. We need to-" John started to say, but broke off when Sherlock's hand slipped inside his jeans. He felt long fingers wrap around his cock, tightening, squeezing. John slammed his mouth onto Sherlock's shoulder to muffle his desperate groan. _No_ , whispered the one part of himself that wasn't consumed with rocking into his best friend's palm. _Not like this. Better than this_. 

 John forced himself to stop. He pulled Sherlock's hand back. For a moment he looked confused, but John still held him by the hand. "Come on, then," he said, turning and leading him down the hall. 

 "What's wrong?" he asked. 

 "You're too damn tall," John replied. 

 Sherlock's bedroom was closest. They walked in and John shut the door. He turned to Sherlock, who was standing by the bed. 

 "I'm tall in here, too, John," he said. 

 John smiled, thin and cold. He stepped up to Sherlock, gave his left shoulder a hard shove, and when that threw off his balance, grabbed his right leg and lifted. Sherlock fell back onto the bed, surprise eclipsed by arousal. He sat halfway up, leaning on his elbows. "My height persists, vertical or horizontal."

 John smiled again. He pulled the sleeves of Sherlock's robe down to his elbows and gave him another shove. "Do shut up." He put one knee on the bed and his hands on Sherlock's shoulders before he could pull his arms free. He hovered over him, brushing his lips against his, indulging in this one dark moment of fictitious dominance. His hands moved from shoulders to face as he kissed him again. Slower now, more intently. John could feel him wriggling out of the robe sleeves. As soon as both arms were loose, Sherlock pulled John over him, hands pressing down on the small of his back. Sherlock pushed up, bringing their erections firmly together. An appreciative groan rumbled in John's throat. Yes, that's what he'd been aiming at.

 Sherlock's fingers pulled at the waist of his jeans, inching them down. John reached between them, unfastening the button and zipper. They both pulled them off, Sherlock taking John's underwear with them. In one move he'd slid out of his own pants and flung them to the side. He pulled at John's jumper and tossed that aside too, only to be confronted by a button-down. Under that was a T-shirt. Rapidly undoing the buttons, he snarled, "Why do you wear so many layers?"

 John removed both shirts and watched Sherlock grasp his own shirt by the collar and pull it off. "Why were you always naked around me?" he asked. Before Sherlock could answer, John had settled over him again. "Always...driving me mad." 

 Sherlock wore a smug smile. "Did I?" he asked. 

 "You know you did," John said. He nuzzled into Sherlock's neck and gave a testing bite. Sherlock inhaled through his teeth. John bit again, below his ear. He brought his hand up to Sherlock's throat as he continued, holding gently at first, then tightened his grip as he bit down. Sherlock placed his hand over John's, but didn't fight it. John's pressure increased - still nothing. Still more - still nothing. 

 John let go at once. "Oh, my god. You'll let me do anything I like to you, won't you?" Sherlock had taken a huge breath and just blinked rapidly at him. "Why?" John asked. 

 Sherlock's volume amplified. "What do you want, John?" he said. "What do you want from me?"

 John was silent for a moment. "Everything." He moved his hand to Sherlock's cheek. "Anything you'll give me. I'll have it."

 Sherlock almost spoke, but instead crushed his lips to John's. They slipped back into a haze of sliding hands and hips. Sherlock maneuvered John onto his back and straddled him without breaking their kiss. John felt him reach for something on his nightstand, heard a container being opened. He looked over.

 "What- What are you doing with that? Is that mine?" he said, staring at his jar of hair pomade in Sherlock's hand.

 "We need something. Styling products and anal lubricants share several classes of common ingredients." Sherlock turned the jar so he could see the label. "Your appalling choice in product is working in our favor. Dimethicone, hydroxyethylcellulose, carrageenan. There's your silicone and viscosity modifiers. What more could you want?"

 "Something without cedarwood, for a start," John replied.

 Sherlock looked back at the label. "Oh."

 John was scandalized. "Are we really going to use that?"

 "The amount of cedarwood in this is negligible."

 "Sherlock!"

 He rolled his eyes. "John, we do this again, I promise I'll buy you the best on the market."

 John went still, and that bleak look had returned. "Again?"

 There it was.

 Just this once, then.

 Sherlock dipped his fingers in the jar and squished the pomade between them. He reached down and stroked it over John's cock. He scooped out more and did it again. John was starting to writhe under him. He kept his hand working, but leaned down to kiss him, then let go and slid forward over him. Sherlock reached back and grasped the base of John's cock, then pushed himself back onto it. 

 John let out a huff, grabbing Sherlock's hips. Sherlock was almost dazed from the shock; that was not pleasurable at all. More like a burning, bursting sensation, and he'd only taken a bit in. He waited a moment, then pushed back, taken more, but it was equally awful. John's hands were everywhere. He was looking up at him like he'd been hypnotized. Sherlock almost shouted 'Don't touch me!' It was too much, overwhelming him, too many sensations at once. But he wouldn't let it ruin this. He would override it. Block it out. He could. 

 John's hands had stilled, resting on his thighs. "Sherlock," he said gently, "let me help you."

 "Fine. I'm fine," he panted out.

 "The hell you are!" John's voice raised up. He squirmed beneath him until his cock slid free. Sherlock let himself collapse, just a little, just for a moment. "Sorry," he managed. "Never done this before."

 "Nor have I," John said, almost laughing.

 Sherlock raised his head to look at him. "No, I think you must have done."

 John was staring back, letting that settle in. He propped himself up, resting on his elbows. "Come here," he said.

 Sherlock shifted forward, still straddling him, until their lips joined. John threaded his fingers through his hair, drawing him closer. Crushed together but not close enough, he angled the kiss so their mouths met obscenely. He worked one hand between them to where the pomade had been slathered and dragged his fingers through it. He pressed them slowly down between Sherlock's thighs, stroking just under his scrotum.

 A tiny hitch in Sherlock's breathing. He moved further, gliding over his perineum. John heard the falter in his breath. He pulled back from the kiss, but their lips still touched. John's fingers skated the small circle of muscle and back up, back down. This time he pressed his finger pads to the opening. Sherlock had tensed again, but leaned back into his touch. John stroked, pressing harder with each passage. He could feel it yielding and pushed past the crest with one finger. Sherlock shivered for a moment, huffing out rapid breaths. John waited until his breathing slowed, then began working his finger around. Pulled out partway and added another. He extended them opposite, creating a stretch. Disbelief flooded him; how had Sherlock gotten as far as he had? Being a physician, he'd had plenty of experience with this anatomy. None of his patients, not even the terrified ones, had felt like this. He needed Sherlock to realize what his body was capable of, that what they were doing could be so much better. He hooked his fingers forward as if beckoning, and dragged them down his prostate. Sherlock surged upward, curling his spine, releasing a guttural groan that John felt reverberate in his own chest.

 _Oh god_ , he thought, _this man is going to kill me._  

 "Do it again," Sherlock growled. He'd wrapped his hand around John's cock. _As if I need that,_ John scoffed, pushing expertly against the small projection that he knew would pass through him like a surge of electricity. Animalistic, the sounds he made. Like the throaty growls of a big cat. Between being worked over and watching Sherlock writhe, John knew neither one would last much longer. John slowly withdrew his fingers. "Sherlock, I think...now," he said. 

 "Oh." Sherlock's eyes were glazed over. "Of course." His hand still gripping John's cock, he eased onto it. It felt so different this time. Instead of discomfort he could concentrate on the heat, the perfectly illicit feel. He looked down at John, who was staring up at him almost incredulously, then let himself take him all the way in. Sherlock almost shouted as John gasped, arching up. He stayed motionless, just absorbing the feel. When he started to rock his hips, John's hands latched onto them, urging him to move faster. Harder. Each time Sherlock snapped back, he felt it - pooling lightning, low in his belly. His hands covered John's, feeling the shuddering urgency in them as he spurred Sherlock on. 

 John was fighting the urge to thrust up into Sherlock, to throw him down and just fuck wildly into him. His entire vocabulary had devolved into a series of moans. He sat partway up, pulling Sherlock down to him so he could ravage his mouth again. Sherlock kept moving. He was so...

 John's arms went around him as he turned them over. He had Sherlock on his back and he was thrusting into him, bottoming out over and over. He didn't realize he was speaking. "You're so...you're so..." but it was lost when he came in a wordless rush. 

 Sherlock felt John's orgasm surging through him, felt John come inside him. The strangest feeling, warm and wet. Even stranger, as John collapsed on him, sweaty and panting, was the urge to gather him close. To keep him inside. 

 John lifted his head, still breathing fast. "You didn't." He looked down between them at Sherlock's erection. "Shit." He inched back from Sherlock, gingerly pulling out. 

 Sherlock could feel an uncomfortable dribble of semen leak out. But then John's mouth was on his cock and there was nothing anymore but John's tongue and lips and throat. 

 He didn't know the etiquette. Was he allowed to touch him during this? Where? Was he supposed to announce his orgasm? John raked his nails down Sherlock's chest and he decided he didn't care. He could feel everything building again, but faster. He knew he was almost...reaching all around him, he finally caught hold of the bedpost as his orgasm ripped through him. His drawn out, shaking cries let John know before, but he didn't stop. He swallowed as Sherlock came, salty and raw, spilling down his throat. 

 John crawled back up to Sherlock. They lay in a sweaty tangle, hands idly drifting across each other's skin. John looked over at Sherlock. 

 "What do you want to do next?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not recommend the use of hair pomade for anything other than hair, although I did my research. Similar ingredients with similar results, and even sometimes the exact same ingredients. Just saying. But seriously, use real personal lubricant in your adventures.


	3. Chapter 3

 They'd been at it for hours. 

 John had memorized the wrecked look that swept over Sherlock whenever he came. Etched the sound of his pleasure into his mind. As for the scent of cedarwood, well, that would never be the same. 

 Especially after the failed rimming. That hadn't worked for anyone in the room. They'd taken turns experimenting, then taken turns swishing spearmint mouthwash in the bathroom. 

 "We've both had a wash; how can it still be there?" Sherlock demanded, taking another swig. 

 "You can't tell me that pomade was the only thing we could have used!" John said, coughing at the spearmint. 

 Cedarwood and spearmint, sweat and sex all fused together like a regrettable incense. But it was theirs.

 Every time they finished, John thought of how he ought to go. Then Sherlock's mouth or fingers obliterated that intention.

 Sherlock was licking a trail across John's neck as John pulled at his hair, biting at it. Sherlock paused, lifted his head and looked sternly at John. "Did you just bite my hair?" John had no idea what he was doing anymore. "Maybe." Sherlock started laughing. John glared for a moment, then started laughing too.

 A distant clinking noise snapped John to attention. "Did you hear that?"

 Sherlock was still chuckling. "Hear what?"

 Another muffled noise. "Sherlock, I think someone's here."

 "Who cares?"

 John was starting to panic. "They could hear us."

 Sherlock thrust his chin up and shouted, "I DON'T CARE IF THEY HEAR!"

 John's stricken eyes stared at him. "Mary."

 Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, his mouth suddenly a grim line. 

 "Sherlock, what if it's Mary?" 

 Sherlock's disapproving look lingered, but John was getting in a state. "All right. I'll go. You get...sorted," he relented. He shrugged on his robe as John hastily gathered up his clothes. He left the door ajar as he exited, hearing John hiss to himself, " _Where the fuck are my pants?"_ Sherlock smirked as he stood in the hall, wearing nothing but his unclosed robe. He waited until John cautiously opened the door, peered around him, and slipped into the bathroom before he started toward the front room. 

 John was right. Someone was there. He could hear movement. The clink of a cup on a saucer. He stopped short, hoping he was right about who.

 "I had sex with John," he announced. 

 "Congratulations."

 Sherlock pulled his robe around himself. "Mycroft? What are you doing here?" he asked, entering the room. 

 Mycroft sat in John's chair, his umbrella resting against its side. He held a cup of tea in his hand, took a leisurely sip and wrinkled his face at it. "Just checking on my little brother after his night of debauchery." Mycroft looked over his shoulder, taking him in. "How are you feeling?"

 Sherlock still had come leaking from his ass, everything ached, and he was severely dehydrated. 

 "Surprisingly okay."

 John appeared behind Sherlock, fully dressed and drenched in aftershave. Sherlock could still smell spearmint and cedarwood. A wave of terror was swiftly ebbing from him. Just Mycroft. Not Mary.

 "Well. Best be going," John said, bouncing a loose fist off his leg. He glanced at Sherlock, turned and hurried down the stairs. 

 Mycroft waited until he heard the downstairs door close. "Well. That was anticlimactic. But then, brother mine, it seems you've had enough climaxes for one day."

 Sherlock closed his eyes. _Mary, Mary, why wasn't it Mary? Where was she? Didn't she care where her fiance was?_

Mycroft lifted his umbrella and walked over to Sherlock. Softly he said, "Let him go." He headed to the door and silently made his exit. 

 Sherlock remained where he was, eyes closed, for some time. He could hear the swish of traffic, voices on the street below, Mrs. Hudson's daytime programs. 

 He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a rush and opened his eyes. He walked to the windows and wedged one finger in the eye socket of the bison skull that hung between them. Retrieving a cigarette, he withdrew a lighter from the other empty eye. He leaned against the wall, pushed open a window and slid to the floor, lighting up as he went. 

 Smoke trailed from his mouth. He couldn't permit himself much time to wallow. 

 He had so much to do before the wedding. 

  


End file.
